I Need You So Much Closer
by fangirlgonewild
Summary: place to put my ficlets and drabbles for Bones; currently no spoilers, but anything and everything is fair game. marked complete because each chapter is complete unto itself
1. Annoyed

Booth had complained about it when it happened, claiming that it had taken up too much of her time. She'd barely been serious about the idea when it was first presented, then suddenly it was consuming her weekends with flights and hotels and calls from the publisher and meetings with her publicist.

Brennan remained unmoved by his whining and pouting. They solved their cases in a timely manner; her neatly wrapping up the evidence and him hauling the bad guy away. If she excused herself from drinks at Wong Foo's to go collapse into bed for a few hours, then it was simply a consequence of her own demanding lifestyle.

He worried about her, and, to hide his worry, he teased her. The more he worried, the more he teased. Soon, he was stretching for material, asking her if all her time in the studio made her long for a career as a pop star.

Booth knew he'd gone too far when he'd stopped in to ask if she had time for dinner before her plane took off, and Angela told him she'd left that morning instead.

"I think she's a little sick of the Cyndi Lauper impersonation, Booth."

So, he smiled and charmed his way back in, begging forgiveness over coffee. Then again over Thai. And again over macaroni (her way of saying 'I'm sorry, too').

It didn't make this project less annoying, though.

Still, when he crammed himself into his coach-class middle seat on a cross-country flight, on his way to a place where she was not, it was nice to take her with him, in a way. To pull out his iPod and find _Temperance Brennan_, and then settle in to listen to her voice read her words (that were _so_ about him) as he traveled across the miles.


	2. Body & Mind

Brennan is weary, slumped over her desk and frantically scribbling her last notes on their latest case for Booth.

(If she knew the expression _bone-tired_ she might have used it to describe herself, even if it wasn't physically accurate—because bones do not feel—but she doesn't know it, so let's leave it alone. Even if that's what she is, bone-tired.)

Although she shook off Angela's advice to leave, ignoring her friend's eye roll at Brennan's refrain of _I just have to finish this one thing_, Brennan wants to go home. Her mind is finally grasping what her body's been telling her for hours, that the day is done. The pen in her hand wobbles, looping wildly over the page before she throws it across the file.

She wants a shower, under the new waterfall showerhead she'd bought just yesterday, warm water and vanilla-scented soap. And a glass of wine, and the new _Jeffersonian Magazine_ that had been sitting on her counter for the past week, begging to be read.

Which is why, when she hears voices in the hall, she doesn't bother to put on her jacket, choosing instead to throw it over her arm and stumble toward the stairs. Tonight, she does not want to be Dr. Brennan, renowned anthropologist (and bestselling author), the workaholic who's always available for a late-night consult.

Sufficiently distracted by her desire to be stealthy, Brennan runs into Booth. (Literally).

Parker finds this hilarious, and insists on mimicking the act of his favorite scientist smacking her nose on his father's arm with his hands (and amplified sound effects). In between renditions, he begs her to please come over and watch the movie with them. In between apologies, Booth bribes her with the promise of dinner.

Brennan agrees, happier than she'll admit to being when Booth insists on driving, cooking, and cleaning up himself. When he finally joins her on the couch, the colors on the flashing screen before her have blurred to a rainbow-colored whirl. She leans into the sinking cushions, resting against Booth's shoulder, too tired to right herself or notice his worried eyes as he puts an arm around her shoulders. Brennan sighs and shifts, comfortable here, as Bones, partner and friend.

(And something more, but like I told you before, her mind takes a while to understand what her body already knows.)


	3. Impressions

Brennan shoves her hair back behind her ear with force, leaning in to point at several lines of type on the file. The sudden invasion of space distracts him, she's in his face all the time, pestering him, but he'd never noticed her perfume before. It's sharp, crisp—he hadn't given much thought to what she smelled like, but it's a refreshing change from the variations on the same floral theme he notices all around him.

"Booth, are you paying attention? I need to leave in a few minutes."

"Yeah, the highlighted sections, which means you don't have to tell me they're important, I can see it right here on the file."

"I just wanted to make sure that you understood. I tried to take your more limited vocabulary and grasp of scientific procedure into the wording."

"Thank, Bones, for the consideration," he pauses, looking her over, "Where are you going, anyway? You're all…dressed up."

And she is, in a top cut lower than Booth has ever seen her wear and a nice pair of tailored jeans. The kind that make you look twice, he figures, but he doubts Brennan would understand the joke, so he refrains from sharing.

"I have a dinner date," she informs him, distracted by the familiar ring of her phone.

"A date? We're in the middle of a case, here."

"Brennan," she stops, holding up a finger to quiet him, "Thank you, Zack. Please direct any further information to Agent Booth directly."

She hangs up, grabbing a pen off his desk and making a few more notes on the back page of the file.

"I believe that you are the one who always says I need to take a night off. Zack will call you with anything significant."

She stands decidedly, halting at the door.

"Have a good evening, Booth."

"Have fun," he says, halfheartedly. Booth likes it better when they fight crime together. It's a lot easier than dealing with the squints, who treat him like he's little more than a child; and it's a hell of a lot better than being here, where half the agents think she's a—

"—total bitch. But she cleans up pretty nice."

Startled, Booth notices Carl, from the office across from his, leaning on his doorframe.

"Huh? Yeah, Bo—Dr. Brennan can be kind of intense."

Normally he would go on, spouting off her case record or credentials to prove her worth, but he hasn't got it in him today. It started as a way to convince everyone (and maybe himself, a little) that no, he hadn't been demoted to babysitting a scientist. It rapidly became a defense to keep someone he considered a valuable asset on good terms with the F.B.I. Now, it was more the defense of a friend, and the general lack of respect shown to her was beginning to irritate him (Far more than it seemed to bother her. She could probably explain it as social-biological bonding or group sub-sub culture or something.)

"She definitely looked hotter today, though. 'S that the real reason you keep working with her? Because I wouldn't mind a case or two if she could keep dressing like that."

"Hey," Booth held up a hand, "That's my partner you're talking about, here. You want to work with her; you take it up with Cullen. In the meantime, keep your thoughts to yourself."

Booth flips a few pages in the file, closing the conversation. Carl, Booth is pleased to note, shrugs and goes away after a few moments. Bones, he knows, would never consent to working with someone so spineless.

But Carl did bring up an important point, one now dancing in the back of Booth's mind.

When she wants to, his partner can look incredibly hot.


	4. Independence

Brennan almost lets the door slam on her way into her apartment, but thinks better of it, catching the edge with her heel and letting it close slowly with a soft _snick_. She tosses Booth's jacket on the table (he'd insisted that she take it; she'd insisted he would forget to ask for it back) and collapses backwards on the couch.

She gets up, eventually, pouring a glass of wine and watching it sparkle for a moment before taking a sip. Brennan runs her fingers along the titles on her bookshelf; she isn't sure what she wants at the moment. She finished her paperbacked research over lunch, and she feels no particular mood, no craving for a title, an author, a genre. Romance…science…fairy tales…nonfiction, she has hundreds of books on thousands of topics and nothing is holding her interest.

She could sit down and write for a while, but it has been a long day, and her mind is emptying itself slowly. Brennan leans against the cool wood of her bookshelf, wondering fleetingly what it would take for her to truly relax.

The phone rings, and she jumps, startled and irritated. Her eyes refuse to focus, and she hits answer without checking the number.

"Brennan."

"Bones, hey, it's me."

"What is it, Booth?"

She is falling asleep standing up, so she slides her back down the side of the shelf until she is sitting on her living room floor.

"What's wrong?" he sounds worried now, she can picture the frown of concern she's sure he's wearing.

"Nothing. It's very late, Booth, is there some new information you wanted to share?"

Their current case is challenging, the construction crew that discovered the body had severely damaged or destroyed most of the bones. She's been reconstructing for days, but some fragments have been reduced to little more than powder. Booth's field work and gut have led their investigation, and Brennan has learned much from her observations.

"I have a theory, but I wanted to run it by you."

"Now?"

"Yeah, I was thinking that I could come over and talk some stuff out."

She almost spits out her 'yes,' because she wants to see him (she always wants to see him) and Booth has a way of making the most mundane evenings eventful and exciting. He will come over, and maybe cook, and insist that she sleep. Brennan bites her lip, considering her options as she hesitates, cradling the phone against her ear.

"Is it important?"

"What?"

"The information, do we need to act on it right now?"

The line crackles as he pauses, "Not really."

"Then we can talk about it tomorrow."

She stands, wearily, moving toward her bedroom on unsteady feet.

"Okay," his voice sounds so small; he is speaking so low she can barely hear him, "G'night."

"Booth?" she catches him before he can hang up.

"Mmm?"

"Pick me up for breakfast and we'll talk about it then."


	5. Communication

Booth's a little bored and a lot restless when he gets her call. Does he want to get some dinner? She's headed to a bar they both know (he took her once, sometimes their work necessitates a drink at the end of a day), and she hopes she'll see him there. As she disconnects, someone on the other end says something, and she laughs, her familiar trill sounding tinny over the airwaves.

The half-laugh echoes and expands in Booth's mind, making him pick the navy oxford shirt and his leather jacket instead of the t-shirt he's worn all day. He runs a hand over his hair and hears her snicker something about "preening rituals."

Wallet, keys, cash, and he's out the door and on his way to her.

He's glad she called, really glad. Whatever freak weather pattern is currently ruling the D.C. skies dumped just enough snow on the ground to make him think twice about going out and doing anything. Plus, the fourteenth. It probably doesn't mean much to her, but any guy she has on deck (and, to his sometimes dismay and often irritation, it seems like there always is one) would take the initiative and make plans, he's sure of it.

Which means, if Bones is calling him, then there is no guy. Or at least, not one she wants to be with today. Other than him. His smile is involuntary, but he catches it in the mirror and has to admit it—there's no one he'd rather be rushing to meet.

The bar is crowded (there's another moniker for this day, one a little lonelier, that drives a certain group out in droves), but he spots her on a stool, nursing a drink. She spots him too, and her face lights up a little as she waves him over. He glows for a minute, until he sees her turn away—she's got someone with her.

"Hey, Bones---and, Sweets?"

"Agent Booth, hello," Sweets responds, in the half-yell that bars require, "Ooh—table!"

Sweets grabs a seat in a nearby booth just as a couple vacates the area. Brennan trails along after him, smiling at Booth in greeting.

"What are you two doing here?" he asks, confused.

"Dr. Sweets and I are conducting a study,"

"We made a bet," Sweets clarifies.

"There is a wager involved, yes." Brennan concedes, leaning over Booth to look out on the mass of people at the bar. He can smell her shampoo, a crisp scent, mixed with the unmistakable smell of Clorox.

"You were at the lab today?"

She doesn't question how he knows.

"Well, yes. I had work to do."

"It's Sunday!"

"I don't consider Sunday a day of rest, Booth. I am not religious."

"You don't have to be religious to take a break once in a while," he grumbles.

Sweets is watching them with a curious look on his face, and Booth decides a subject change is in order.

"So, Sweets, where's your girlfriend?"

"Daisy is on a business trip."

Booth chuckles, and both squints look at him with interest.

"A business trip? On Valentine's Day weekend?"

"She's assisting with some excavation work in the Loire Valley; it's very impor—"

"Those two, right there," Brennan interrupts suddenly, pointing conspicuously at a couple standing by the end of the bar. Booth grabs her wrist, lowering her hand.

Sweets leans over, watching them for a long moment, "Just met."

"No, their body language is far too comfortable. She's positioned herself close to him, suggesting that she knows him and trusts him."

"Nope, she's just good."

"At what?"

"At not paying for her own drinks," Booth cuts in, watching at the woman picks up her martini glass and smiles at her companion.

"Well, she has the drink now, and she's still there."

"Give her another minute," Booth looks from scientist to psychologist, "Is this the bet?"

Sweets nods, "Anthropology versus psychology, loser buys the next round."

Brennan sighs as the woman slips away, joining a group of women on the dance floor.

"There is not a very precise way of determining who wins, but it is very amusing."

Brennan drains her glass, Sweets smiles in satisfaction, and Booth shakes his head in disgust.

"This is how you two are choosing to spend Valentine's Day? Making fun of people out looking for love?"

"I told you he wouldn't like it," Brennan snaps.

"First, I hardly think that woman was looking for love, Agent Booth. And second, we didn't set out to do this, it began as a discussion."

"Third," Brennan breaks in, "Valentine's Day is a highly commercialized celebration of courtship. The day actually commemorates the beheading of a saint—"

"I know what it commemorates, Bones."

"Fine. Then I guess you don't want to be a part of my team."

"Team?"

"Sweets feels sorry that I am doing so poorly, and he offered me a team member to help my cause. It isn't fair gameplay, but," she drops her voice and leans in to Booth, "he seemed so sure that no one I called would be able to beat him, and I did not appreciate his smugness."

Brennan's a little drunk and a lot smiley, and he doesn't think he could refuse her anything when she looks at him like that. He scans the bar, the floor, the booths, then says, "Fine. The guy in the green shirt and the girl in the black dress: couple."

Sweets glances over, then nods, "Couple. But not those two, at the table next to them. The guy in the red shirt."

Booth shakes his head, "They're together too."

"Mmm-mm. They're the setup on a double date with the real couple."

"They're together," Booth tells Brennan, "because they aren't talking much. He knows she'd rather be somewhere else, see? He's got his arm around her waist, so she knows that whenever she leaves, he's going with her."

"Or he's subconsciously trying to hold her down, because they just met, and he doesn't want any competition," Sweets argues.

"They're comfortable with each other, just not here," Booth says, watching as the girl slides out of the booth, holding out her hand to the boy.

"I think that's one for us," he tells Sweets, "So we're tied up."

Sweets shakes his head, and Brennan grimaces.

"We were playing for a while before you were here, Booth, I owe him…a lot more rounds of drinks."

* * *

The bar empties out as the night wears on, and Sweets opts to take a cab, but Booth is solidly sober as he pulls into Brennan's apartment complex. She was pretty good herself, having switched to water (and explaining to both men how important it was to stay hydrated after consuming alcohol), but he'd offered and she'd accepted.

Brennan fumbles with her keys, her fingers red and stiff in the cold outside her door.

"Are you coming in?"

"You aren't going to have another drink _now_?"

"No, but I am quite hungry, and I was thinking of making some cheese sandwiches."

"It was a joke, Bones."

"It wasn't very funny, Booth."

She tosses him a look as she moves into the kitchen, both irritated and bemused. He knows where everything is, so he grabs a pan as she gets the bread and cheese.

"I wasn't making fun of anyone, you know," she says quietly as she watches the bread brown, flipping her sandwich neatly.

"What?"

"At the bar, I wasn't…what we were doing, I didn't see it as spiteful."

"Bones,"

"I recommended Miss Wick for the excavation, the one in France."

"Oh," he's confused, but he knows her, she'll get to the point eventually.

"She's too chatty and scattered in the lab, but she's very promising, and I thought it would be a good opportunity. They asked me to come, but…"

Brennan trails off, lost in thought. Booth pulls the sandwiches out of the pan, leading her to the table.

"But what?"

"It's not really relevant. The point is, she's not here because of me. And Dr. Sweets came by the lab, and he looked…lonely. So we talked, which led to arguing, which led to the bar."

"It's not a bad thing to try and help a friend when they're sad."

"But we weren't being mean, Booth," she says, frustrated, "I listen when you talk about love, you think that it is powerful. I agree. And we were not belittling the search for that."

"I know, Bones, okay? I was wrong, when I said that. You can just be a little, um, hard on the holidays sometimes."

"It seems to me that being hard on this holiday entails behaving with bitterness toward love."

"Very true," she astounds him sometimes, like right now, when she turns his head about things he was so sure of before.

"It was a fun game. A good one."

"You think that because you were good at it," she says, raising an eyebrow.

"Maybe a little."

He grins at her, and then he lets the conversation lapse as they both tuck into their sandwiches.


	6. Old Habits

A/N: This is future fic, no real spoilers.

Sometimes, on very rare and special occasions, Brennan recognizes that she's gone too far, pushed too hard, and that she's going to pay for it.

_I'm so tired._ She thinks as she stumbles into her bathroom counter, holding her towel ends in one hand and wiping the steam from the mirror with the other. This is how she knows, really, that she's exhausted. Fifteen minutes ago she couldn't remember to flip on the fan; and now she cannot be bothered to care about the dried streaks her fingertips will leave.

Brennan picks to ignore her raccoon eyes (a combination of running mascara and overtime at the lab), opting to brush her teeth while leaning against the door for support. She runs a hand through her wet hair, shuddering away from the thought of _drying_ it.

So instead she curls up in her bed, wrapping her comforter around her and letting her eyes fall shut.

She wakes up to the smell of pancakes.

Untwisting herself from her sheets, Brennan rubs her eyes and examines the odd shape her hair dried itself in, an amorphous curling monster of frizz. She tames it with an elastic band, finds clothes, and washes her face as if on autopilot.

Her head aches, in the abstract way that comes when you don't do anything you should for days and days.

There's coffee in the kitchen, piping hot and waiting just for her. Then there are the pancakes, stacked high on colorful plates and smelling far too wonderful to be real.

But they are, and so is he.

Because of course, there's Booth, one hand absentmindedly twirling his empty mug as he flips a page of the paper with the other.

"Morning," he says, too cheerily for her tastes.

Brennan grunts her response, lurching clumsily toward the coffeepot.

"Oh, I'm sorry, should that have been 'good morning, beautiful?'"

"I hardly think I'm very beautiful right now."

His bemused smile says a lot of things, including _yes, you are_ and also _I told you so_, but she doesn't want to hear it at the moment, so she looks away.

"You got back late," she notes, after a moment.

"You went to bed early,"

She can't remember what time it was, not that it matters. She sits down next to him at the counter; he pushes the pancakes toward her and hands her a fork.

"Cam sent me home," she confesses, taking a bite.

"I came to the lab to drag you out of it; she mentioned that she'd saved me the trouble."

"I got…" she pauses, thinking.

"Wrapped up?"

"That."

Her plate is suddenly empty, but even the most delightful coffee she's ever tasted can inspire her to do the dishes. Booth stacks them up in the sink, then takes her hand and leads her to the couch. He flops down, leaving her standing.

"What are you doing?" she asks, watching him stretch out.

"Relaxing. It's _Saturday_, Bones." Booth meets her stare with even eyes.

"I thought you wanted to repaint that extra bedroom?" She's confused, he bought the paint, said she could help if she wanted.

He shrugs, "It can wait. Come on…we can just hang out, watch a movie, take a nap."

"I just woke up."

But she finds herself drawn down, stretching out beside him on the far-too-comfortable cushions. And she closes her eyes, because Booth promises that people nap all the time on Saturday almost-afternoons, and because he doesn't say _I warned you, Bones_ even though he wants to, very, very badly.

Sometimes, on very rare occasions, she takes a moment to think about how lucky she really is, and how loved she's been. And even though she knows that these things can be explained as meaningless coincidences; she wonders, in her heart of hearts, what she did to deserve this life.


	7. Change

"I think that you should ask her to dinner," Brennan remarks casually.

"Excuse me?"

"I think that you should ask her to dinner," she repeats, carefully annunciating each word.

"I heard you the first time, Bones, I just don't know what you are talking about. Or who, for that matter."

Brennan looks up from her coffee, tossing him a smile that normally suggests he's being a bit dim. Usually he spots this look in the lab, though, not the diner. And usually it's because they're discussing greenstick fractures on the clavicle, not his love life.

"Missy Edelsten," Brennan says, "She was very impressed by you. I could tell by the way she watched you."

"The victim's _boss_?" Booth chokes a little on his pastry, "She was a suspect!"

"She isn't a suspect now. And she made a special effort with her appearance when you called in her for interrogation."

"I am not asking Missy Edelsten out on a date," he says, hoping she'll let the subject drop.

"Why not?"

Booth sighs, knowing it was too much to hope for, but wishing that she knew (or at least respected) where the line of _personal_ came into play. It's his own fault, really, because somewhere along the way their lives intertwined, twisting together in such a way that neither one of them had anything private to hide from the other.

Except that one thing, and even that's out in the open now.

"Because I am not interested in her."

"I know; you are interested in me."

And apparently, Brennan finds it fair game and up for discussion. Booth sinks in his seat, not sure how to proceed.

"But I do not want to go to dinner, and Missy Edelsten does. So you should ask her."

There is something behind her matter-of-fact tone that irks him, a note of something that he cannot quite identify.

"I'm not asking her, and that is that. Okay?"

"Okay," she agrees, frowning slightly, like he's presented a puzzle she needs to work out.

It takes a while for her to get the message. She puts forward numerous suggestions, and, like a good scientist, she provides him with a list of logical reasons to pursue a relationship with any one of them.

"She works at a school, Booth, she'll be very well acquainted with the social development of children for Parker."

"Her solid understanding of difficult emotions will make her a good candidate to share the complicated feelings you have toward your past."

"She's very beautiful."

"Beautiful? What is that going to get me?"

"You rejected most of my more logic-based criteria, so I thought I would try a different approach."

"Ah."

"Plus, you are a very attractive male, so it seems reasonable to assume you would want a partner of comparable good looks."

Eventually, she stops making suggestions. That's when she starts watching him with cautious eyes, and Booth cannot decide which is weirder: listening to her try to help him get over her, or watching her worry that he isn't going to.

In the end, Booth fails to take Brennan up on any of her suggestions. But he doesn't find his eyes meeting someone else's across a crowded room either. She's just the friend of a friend, and they hit it off over a casual dinner.

Booth waits until after the fourth date to introduce them. He's not sure who he's trying to spare, because he knows that Brennan knows he's been seeing someone (she'll have taken note of his absence in the lab at all hours at the very least). And Anna, well, he knows that she knows Brennan is important to him (she'll have taken note that the lady scientist features pretty prominently in some of his best anecdotes).

Brennan smiles graciously when Anna compliments her dress. She does not explain any kind of biological reason for wanting to create a spectacle, nor does she toss in a comment about the values of different societies. She invites Anna to come and see the lab sometime.

Booth wonders who this woman is, and what on Earth is she up to?

He catches her with her head in her hands, leaning on the railing outside her office. Briefly, he considers coming back later, but the words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop himself.

"Everything okay?"

She looks up, startled out of her reverie. He hasn't got a clue as to what could be troubling her; they haven't been together much lately. It's an uncomfortable revelation.

"Everything is fine," she says, pausing for a moment before adding, "Is Anna still coming by this afternoon?"

"Yeah, you've got her all excited about visiting."

Booth stands apart from her, an oddly formal space stretching between them. She nods, and he clears his throat awkwardly, turning to go.

"Booth?"

"Mmm?"

"I know…that things are going to change. I knew that they would when…it's logical, that things cannot stay the way that they were."

Brennan locks her eyes with his, because she's always faced her challenges head-on.

"I was just wondering," she says, holding her voice even, "if you would please keep calling me Bones?"

"Of course," he says, "It's who you are to me…Bones."

"Thank you," she almost-whispers, turning back to look out over the lab, her eyes glazing over, "Just come and get me when Anna arrives, and we can start her tour in my office."


End file.
